"India has to decide whether it wants to keep the tiger or not. It has to decide if it is worthwhile to keep its National Symbol, its icon, representing wildlife. It has to decide if it wants to keep its natural heritage for future generations, a heritage more important than the cultural one, whether we speak of its temples, the Taj Mahal, or others, because once destroyed it cannot be replaced."

Taking cue from the Elephant Parade held in London, some of India's finest artists have created ‘The Tiger Trail’ here in India through an initiative called ARTIGER to generate awareness and funds in order to save the endangered Royal Bengal Tiger that is also our National Animal.

Prominent artists have painted 58 life size fibre glass Royal Bengal Tigers, each with the artists' signature style. These tigers will be adopted by leading corporate houses in the country. For a period of three months, the tigers will be displayed in public spaces all over New Delhi, beginning December 2010, after which they will belong to the corporate house s that have adopted them.

All the money raised through the sale of these tigers will be donated to ‘The Ranthambore Foundation’ which is doing fine work in this domain.

In 1969, Jerry Levitan, a Beatles fanatic, snuck into John Lennon's hotel room, tape recorder in hand and interviewed John and Yoko. 38 years later, using the interview as a sound track, Jerry produced a film about it.

It's not just an amusing anecdote, rampant with witty phrases. This film is a vital reminder that the state of the world is not static. It can be changed.

My heart was racing. I walked past familiar faces to assume my assigned place. Palms were sweaty. Time slowed down. I could hear the fans whirring overhead and the entity behind me furiously sharpening a pencil, only stopping once the nib was satisfactorily sharp.

It’s time. There’s no looking back. Not now, especially not now.

I shook off the few anxious thoughts that hung about my head and prepared myself for the task at hand. It’s easy, I told myself. You’re here. You know everything you need to know. What could possibly go wrong.

Everything, came the reply. Everything is at stake. One wrong move and it’s over. Finished. Just like that.

Ignoring His unsolicited commentary, I gave a fleeting glance to the Heavens; offered one last prayer.

Taking a deep breath, I filled my lungs with the oxygen I knew I was going to need. I checked my vitals. My body was responding as it should. I turned my attention to what mattered – the target was before me. Ready to be assaulted. I felt the adrenaline surge through my body. My sense modalities heightened – reaching their zenith. I could feel the valves within my aorta reverberate as the blood rushed through them fervently.

Stop.

I paused - to survey the target. The Teacher had taught me well. There was no hurdle I couldn’t overcome. I pulled myself together for the final strike, the culmination of all those years of perseverance. This is it.

I completed the task with aplomb. The Teacher would be proud.

* * * *

They knew. The news was out. It was just a matter of time before the news reporters arrived at my front door, hounding me for every minute detail of my bleary existence.

But there was nothing to be said.

My fate had been decided the day I enrolled in IIT- JEE preparation classes.

The Indian Institute of Technology Joint Entrance Examination (popularly known as IIT-JEE or just JEE) is an annual college entrance examination in India. A total of fifteen colleges use JEE as a sole criterion for admission to their undergraduate programs. The test is considered tough as the format of questions asked keeps changing in order to discourage rote learning. It is also highly selective as only 1 in 60 are selected. Around 400,000 test takers compete for 9,500 seats each year.

I closed my eyes as a light breeze blew through the branches overhead, and for a moment the chirping of the birds, the rustle of the leaves and the tinkling of the chimes in the verandah were surprisingly clear. As the branches resumed the stillness of statues, I opened my eyes to embrace the fading light of the drowning sun...

It was time for us to head inside and have our evening meal. I took one last look at the branches overhead, slid off the swing and shuffled past the plants, through the open door and joined the others at the dining table as the attendants ladled the thick, starchy soup into our bowls. Having had enough to eat, I retired to my room and lay down on the metal cot.

The next morning I was awoken by the sun as it pierced through the holes in the tattered curtains that covered the filthy windows. I eased myself out of bed, got dressed and ambled towards the living room to greet my companions. As I was about to lower myself into the ancient rocking chair, I was called upon by the nurse who handed me the pills the in- house doctor had prescribed. Just then the Old Age Home’s security guard rushed towards me saying, “Sahib! Sahib! A letter has arrived for you!”

All eyes in the room turned towards me as I was handed the envelope. It was a rarity for anyone in the Home to receive a letter, and more often than not it contained bad news. I flipped the envelope to see the sender’s address - the letter had been sent by my son! A smile spread across my face for the first time in months and I muttered a quiet prayer before before ripping open the envelope. Alas, all that fell out was a cheque covering the expenses incurred while living in the old age home for the past three years. I was disappointed, a tear trickled down my cheek and a sob escaped my lips. I had been writing to my son every single week enquiring about his well- being, his wife and children, always sending them my blessings and best wishes, and not once had he replied. Not once did he bother to acknowledge my letters, it was as if he thought I no longer existed.

This was the first time anyone in the Home had ever seen me break down. When all the others were filled with despair and had lost all hope of reuniting with their families and returning to their own homes, I was still optimistic. I had faith even when my son and his family came to leave me at the Old Age Home, because they didn’t want me to be alone while they were on a month long holiday in the United States. I didn’t anguish, even when the Manager of the Old Age Home informed me that my son had moved to the United States of America with his family for good.

But this time, realization struck. I no longer had anything to live for. My own child no longer cared about me. I just didn’t understand why...What could I have done wrong to deserve this? We made sure he got the best of everything, we sacrificed our own needs so that he could go to a private school in the city, I worked double shifts so that I could earn enough to fulfill his every whim and fancy.

I can’t believe that my own flesh and blood - my son, could treat me like this. Today, I am trapped in an Old Age Home, a place where people deemed no longer “useful” to society are sent when they cease to be loved by their kin. I am now surrounded by senility and decrepit bodies that harbor the wealth of knowledge yet behave like children, impatiently awaiting their end. They now stare at me with those eyes that have witnessed ages gone past, but are now blinded by their own failing bodies. Each soul is a chasm of despair, as almost everyone they have ever known is dead, dying, or has forgotten about them.

I finally understand what they have been going through as I stand in the middle of the room with tears incessantly rolling down my wrinkled cheeks. I have lost all control. I can no longer see clearly, everything around me is a blur...My legs lead me towards the garden, I walk past the drying bushes and sit on the swing staring up at the clear blue sky, waiting for the deliverance of death....